


No Matter Where I Go

by blushing_phan



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 04:04:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7669411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blushing_phan/pseuds/blushing_phan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"One thing you should know, no matter where I go, we'll always be together. Forever and ever."</p><p>Dan feels insecure and sad in Phil's absence; Winnie the Pooh makes him feel better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Matter Where I Go

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Wow, Jade, two fics in two days? Indeed. I felt sentimental and sappy last night, so I wrote this quick little story.

It was raining in London.

The sky was gloomy and grey and the air smelled metallic and Dan wondered if the universe might be sympathizing with him. He felt even drearier than the sky looked, and his heart was but a trembly, achy thing that shivered in the middle of a chest that felt hollow. 

“Will you miss me, Dan?” Phil had asked, his tone light and airy, almost teasing. He wouldn't be away for too long, after all, and he didn't expect that Dan would miss him too terribly. 

“Of course not,” Dan had replied dismissively; it was a ridiculous lie, but Dan wasn't able to come out with the truth. He felt silly. 

He felt even sillier curled up beneath Phil’s duvet, hugging one of Phil’s pillows to his chest, his knees drawn close to his body as he attempted to make himself as small as possible. 

Dan’s hair, gone unruly from his utter lack of motivation to maintain his physical appearance whatsoever, and one hand which gripped his phone were the only parts of his being that were visible amongst the clean, Phil-scented sea of blue and green. 

“Hey Dan, do you want to answer some questions?” 

“No.” 

The script was familiar to Dan; his tendency to watch the old videos in Phil’s absence was one that tapped into a childlike urge. He longed to go back to the beginning, if only for a little while, and especially now that things were so different. 

He was grateful of course. 

A book, a handful of transcontinental tours, an admirable social media platform and a loyal following was nothing to turn your nose up at, after all. 

But nostalgia is a beautiful cruelty that is only human, and Dan couldn't help but wish he could return to days of casual flirting and worse haircuts and poorer film quality. 

It had all been so exciting. 

He vividly remembered sitting, riddled with butterflies, on the train he'd saved up all his money to buy a ticket for, unable to shake off the nervous tick of compulsively checking the time. It had been raining that day, too, but then it seemed rejuvenating, a potential promise of something new and beautiful on the brink of blossoming into reality. He remembered thinking that Phil’s shirt made his eyes look greener than they did over Skype, that his hands were smaller than he expected, that his hair was blacker than the night and he was jealous of it. 

Never would he forget working up the courage to propose to Phil the idea of moving in together, the very first night spent in the Manchester flat, the first time setting up lights and a wobbly tripod in the lounge that was, at least to the extent covered in the rental lease, theirs, and filming together. 

From then on, their identities became intertwined; they were Dan and Phil. Dan and Phil from BBC Radio One, Dan and Phil from YouTube, Phan on Tumblr and Ao3. 

They maintained separate identities, too. 

There was AmazingPhil, quirky AmazingPhil who coveted lions and houseplants, sweet AmazingPhil who swore not to swear, underrated AmazingPhil who invented brilliantly inspired games that he never truly received proper credit for. 

Then, there was danisnotonfire. Geeky danisnotonfire who loved anime and videogames, self-depreciating danisnotonfire who made jokes at his own expense but never anybody else's, proactive danisnotonfire who did his very best to right his past wrongs and stand firmly by his own beliefs. 

But there was no denying that they were better together. 

The thought had often occurred to Dan, try as he might to ignore it, that the reason Phil’s extended periods of absence caused him to feel so broken up was that someday, he assumed, Phil would leave the flat for good. 

Would leave Dan for good. 

Not today, not tomorrow, not in three weeks or six months, but someday. 

Dan swallowed hard; he could feel tears behind his eyes, and even though he was alone and nobody was around to witness it, he was embarrassed to cry. 

It was almost impossible to imagine a life without Phil, but it sounded lonely. He'd never met anyone who understood him the way Phil did, and he was positive nobody else would put up with him so patiently or reach out to him so tenderly, with so much genuine concern for his wellbeing. 

In summation, nobody loved him the way Phil did. 

It was too late now to stop it; a short whimper welled up from his chest, and before Dan could stop himself, he dissolved into tears. He couldn't help it; here and now, he was little more than a frightened child, and the inevitable future was a sleepless malice that lurked just beneath the bed. Dan rolled over onto his stomach and buried his head in the pillows, his shoulders visibly shaking, his hands gripping the sheets beneath him, knuckles white. 

His capacity to think himself to tears was truly ridiculous; he was too sensitive for his own mindset. 

He slipped his hands under the pillow into which he sobbed, holding it tighter against his face in an attempt to bring himself back down to earth. He felt as whole chest aching, felt his eyes burn, his nose run. His fingers sunk into the mattress as he made a valiant effort to ban the heart-wrenching thought of being left behind from his mind. 

It was hard though, not to dwell. 

It wasn’t until his fingers dug into something smooth that definitely was _not_ sheets or pillows that he stopped crying, and even then it was only out of perplexity. Dan’s breath was still hitching and his cheeks were itching as he pushed Phil’s many pillows to the side, wondering if he had imagined the new texture. 

He hadn’t, though, because sitting unassumingly on the fitted sheet was a small, square piece of folded white paper, that was, to his surprise, addressed to him. Hesitantly, Dan picked up the little note; the scrawl across the front was clearly Phil’s. He’d even drawn a handful of stars and a smiley face as decoration. Curiosity piqued, he unfolded the paper and read: 

_Hello Daniel,_

 _I’m leaving a letter for you, and I know you’ll find it because I know you like to sleep in my bed while I’m away. You’re terrible at hiding it. I also know that you get sad while I’m away, and it worries me that I’m not there to help you feel better. So, I’m leaving you this letter to remind you of a couple things: Firstly, you are not alone. There are loads of people who love you, who want you to be happy, and would do anything to see you smile. You are not alone. And even if you don’t want to call Louise or PJ or your mum, you can always call me. You know that. Second, there’s nothing to be afraid of. You are perfectly safe and sound, and nothing is after you. There is no murderer hiding behind the shower curtain, no monster in the closet, no demon in the corner. Everything will be okay. Lastly, I get the feeling this is what you need to be reminded of, and I think the best way to tell you is with a quote from your favorite bear: “If ever there is a tomorrow we’re not together, there is something you must alway remember: you are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we’re apart, I’ll always be with you.”_

Dan watched renewed, crystalline teardrops drip onto the page from the end of his nose; leave it to Phil to be so painfully attentive, to be so acutely aware of Dan, even from miles and miles away. Dan curled up on his side and held the letter tight to his chest, where his heart was still twinging painfully. 

He closed his eyes, and mulled Phil’s proclamation over in his mind. 

Phil would never leave him behind. It was almost insulting to even consider the possibility; they had been through so much together, side by side, hand in hand. Even if Phil moved out tomorrow, Dan wouldn’t be left for dead. They were partners. Team Rocket HQ. Double trouble. 

With these thoughts easing his anxious subconscious, Dan found himself drifting closer and closer to sleep, his heart much less achy now, with his cheek nestled close to Phil’s pillows, sheets drawn up over his head. 

In the wee hours of the morning, when the sky walked the tightrope between night and day, when the stars were dim but still glowing and the sun was not yet a blazing sphere, but a subdued, indifferent circle peeking over the horizon, the door to Phil’s bedroom creaked open. 

If Dan had not been so exhausted both emotionally and physically, perhaps the not-so-silent entrance would have stirred him, but his nose hardly twitched, even when Phil discarded his luggage haphazardly in the corner and creeped to the bedside. He lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress, careful not to disturb the sleeping boy, whose feathery hair had curled at the ends and stuck up here and there. There was a piece of paper crumpled slightly in his grip, and Phil smiled knowingly. He reached out to sweep some of the fringe from Dan’s forehead, before tweaking his nose softly by means of awakening him. Dan groaned and tipped his head this way and that, before a tiny sneeze erupted from him and he lifted his head up, spooked. 

“Phil-?” He mumbled, clearly still half-sleeping, and Phil couldn't resist leaning over to gather him into a hug. Dan wrapped his arms around Phil’s middle and rested against his side, the letter firmly in his grip. “I thought you might never come home.” 

Phil shook his head, amused. “I’ll always come home to you. Silly Old Bear.”


End file.
